


Say It Straight

by blueeyesandpie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drinking to Cope, First Time, M/M, PBbotprompts, Profoundbots, Sam POV, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, idiots to lovers, no spoilers past season 13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22139299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueeyesandpie/pseuds/blueeyesandpie
Summary: Something went wrong in that milk run to Kentucky, but neither Dean nor Cas want to explain what happened. When the truth does come out, it isn't at all what Sam expected...though really, why should he be surprised?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 9
Kudos: 177
Collections: ProfoundBot- Fic Collection, The Profound Network





	Say It Straight

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the current bot-stats in the Profound Bond discord. Specifically: 
> 
> Dean is drowning his sorrows.  
> Cas needs a hug.  
> Sam is behaving. For now.
> 
> [ **Come play with us**](http://discord.profoundbond.net) if you like!

It’s been twenty four hours since Dean and Cas came back from a milk run to Kentucky, and Sam’s tolerance has officially hit and surpassed its natural limit. 

Dean’s spent the day holed up in his room with cold pizza, a bottle of Jim Beam, and—according to Sam’s credit card statement—entirely too much porn. When he does stumble out his face is suspiciously puffy, but he dons his classic “fuck you very much” expression before Sam can even get his mouth open to ask what’s wrong. 

Cas isn’t much better, although at least he's skipped the adult entertainment. He wanders about the Bunker like a lost school kid, occasionally making forays into the kitchen to poke at beer he won’t drink and food he won’t eat, into the library to flip through a book he won’t read, or into the garage to stare at a car he doesn’t drive. 

Eventually the angel settles at a table in the library to painstakingly replace every label on the bottles and boxes in their “witch kit.” He insists it must be done because Dean’s handwriting “is atrocious, Sam. What if we need myrrh but grab thyme instead?” The excuse is flimsy as fuck and they both know it, but Cas clearly has no interest in further discussion. 

As Sam watches the angel write yet another new label, clarity strikes like lightning to a church tower: _he’s heartbroken_. His friend’s pain is painted across every line on his face, takes the sparkle from his eyes, fills his shoulders with tension. It’s so obvious now, Sam is ashamed he didn’t notice before. _Why is he so upset?_

After contemplating the problem in silence for another few minutes, Sam settles one shoulder against the end of a bookcase, crosses his arms, and says what needs to be said. “What the hell happened between you and Dean?” 

“Nothing of import,” Cas says in his best angelic monotone. He carefully places the label and smooths it down with a thumb. He doesn’t look up.

Sam’s eyebrows fly up. “Bullshit.” 

Cas says nothing, does nothing, save reach for another label. A muscle spasms in his jaw and his shoulders square up a little more than necessary for his task, however, and Sam knows it's just a matter of time before he gets an answer. 

“Dean blew the case,” Sam guesses. When he gets no response, he tries again. “ _You_ blew the case.” 

Cas rolls his eyes. “There was no “blowing” anything. I already told you: nothing happened.”

Silence returns for a time. Sam pretends to read while Cas restocks and rewrites. _It’s none of my business_ , Sam reminds himself. _This will pass as it always does, they’ll get over it, and get back to business as normal soon enough. Interfering is just going to cause bigger problems, so frigging behave._

His mouth apparently has a mind of its own and decides behaving is for squares. “Did you walk in on him getting it on with the bartender or something?” 

Cas’s arm jerks, the motion sending half a dozen tiny bottles crashing to the floor. He twists to look at the mess, then makes an annoyed _huff_ sound and turns back to his project. “No. I did not encounter him having intimate relations with a stranger,” he says in a tone so brittle Sam half expects him to start sobbing mid-sentence. 

“Bullshit,” Sam says again.

“Go on a...long walk, Sam.”

Sam blinks, taken off guard by the odd phrasing until he realizes what Cas actually meant. It’s endearing, in a way. Infuriating, too, that the angel can try so hard to be more human, yet this divide remains, as cold and empty as the empty halls the angel paces while his human friends sleep. It’s visible most in moments like these, when he says something innocuous but gets it wrong in a way no human would.

“I’m not going to take a hike, Cas,” he says, in the same voice he uses to calm terrified victims of supernatural activity. Ironic that he uses it now to soothe an angel. “I’m your friend, and Dean is my brother. I need to know you’re both okay.”

After a moment Cas clears his throat, though his eyes remain fixed on the table as he speaks. “It was very unusual, but it made logical sense for Dean to pretend I was his romantic partner on our last hunt. A couple on a roadtrip is less threatening than two single men after all, and we needed the trust of the locals to locate the nest. I found it difficult to play along.”

“Why?” 

“Because what Dean said in jest to support his charade, I said with certainty, knowing he will never feel the same.”

Sam’s jaw drops of its own accord. “ _What_ — _?_ ”

“When the job was done, I told him I couldn’t do that again. I can’t live that lie, even for a hunt. He hasn’t spoken to me since. I can only assume he’s annoyed that I’ve tarnished his hunting experience with my...how does he put it? “Chick flick” feelings.” Cas throws his hands in the air in a gesture of frustrated dismissal.

There’s a beat of quiet before Sam can gather his thoughts enough to speak again. “Do you _love_ Dean?” 

“Yes, I do.” 

It shouldn’t be a surprise, it really shouldn’t. In retrospect, all the signs are there, have _been_ there. 

Sam remembers profound bonds and suicide runs. He remembers Cas coming back to Dean again and again no matter the cost, no matter the reason. He remembers that Cas fought through all of hell for one man, gave up an army for one man, broke angelic conditioning for one man, came back from the _great big fucking empty_ for one god damn man. He remembers Castiel slouched against a couch some years before, blood dripping down his face as he stared up at Dean. He remembers the angel’s voice as he said _I love you. I love all of you_ , already resigned to his fate. Somehow no one had understood that he meant it for _Dean_. 

“Romantically?” It’s a dumb question, but he has to know for sure.

“In whatever way he’ll allow.”

There’s another crash, this time much heavier and accompanied by the skittering sound of broken glass bouncing across the floor. Sam and Cas turn as one to look at the source. 

Dean is standing in the door wearing his dead guy robe, fingers still flexing in mid air where they’d held a bottle moments before. His eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, but they’re fixed on Cas, wide and disbelieving. “What the hell?”

Cas pushes himself off his chair and begins gathering glass fragments and herbs together with careful fingers. “Don’t let me keep you from Princess Needza Dicken, Dean,” he says, and if Sam couldn’t see his face from here, couldn’t see the way he squeezes his eyes shut and sniffs after, he might think Cas didn’t give two shits about Dean at all. 

“No. Dammit, no! You just told Sam you love me. What the hell does that even mean?” 

“Why does it matter now? It never has before.” Cas sounds genuinely perplexed. 

“You _stupid_ son of a bitch.” 

It occurs to Sam, as he watches Dean span the distance between the door and the table, that his brother is entirely too functional given how much liquor he’s consumed. It’s a troubling puzzle, but finding the answer isn’t nearly as interesting as watching Dean yank Cas to his feet. Well, he tries to, anyway. The angel doesn’t budge, and Dean stumbles forward, thrown off balance by the unexpected weight. He lands on his ass under the table, cursing a blue streak. Perhaps he isn’t so functional after all.

Dean is oblivious to the mess around him. He doesn’t even seem aware that Sam’s still there, or really that there’s anything in the world other than Cas. He reaches, fingers hooking into Cas’s tie and tugging ineffectually. “You told me you didn’t want to be with me,” Dean hisses. “You told me you’d rather be anywhere else, because seeing me was painful.”

Sam winces in sympathy. 

“Because it hurt,” Cas snaps, and now he _is_ looking at Dean, his jaw tight and his blue eyes flashing with passion. “You were lying about something I would die to have, and you thought it was funny.”

“If I didn’t laugh about it I would have cried, Cas,” Dean whispers, and Sam can see him running his thumb over that tie like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. “What was I supposed to do? The sun’s more likely to love me back than you are.”

“I’m tired of the games, Dean. Say it straight if you mean it at all.” 

The silence stretches. Dean’s fingers flex on the tie and his head bobs up and down as if he’s swallowing. Their eyes are locked in some nonverbal standoff, and it occurs to Sam that he should leave. He should really get the hell out, right now, and pretend none of this ever happened. 

Of course he stays, completely riveted by the scene unfolding before him. 

“Dean?” It’s less an inquiry and more a beseeching plea; Cas’s voice catches mid-word and he wets his lips after. “ _Please._ ”

“I love you, Castiel,” Dean says shakily, releasing the blue fabric to slide up and cup Cas’s face with work-roughened fingers. “I love you so damn much it hurts.”

The two crash together like competing storms, disregarding glass and debris, furniture and unwilling witnesses as their mouths and bodies meet for the first time. It’s uncoordinated and messy; if Sam were more vindictive, he’d be taking video for blackmail later because he's never seen Dean so completely off his game.

Then Dean makes an incoherent sound deep in his throat that Sam could have done without ever hearing from his frigging _brother_ , and that’s it, that’s definitely his cue. As happy as Cas and Dean seem to be, Sam has no desire to stick around for any further brain-scarring events. “Congratulations guys,” he manages to get out, then flees for the relative safety of noise canceling headphones, a locked bedroom door, and a whole new set of issues to take into consideration for the future.


End file.
